Serial Widow
by Sunset
Summary: Finale - Thank you Soph for all your comments, and for your help
1. Part One

Fifteen years ago - Kansas  
  
  
Her foot pumped up and down, the only indication of her impatience. She sat in the armchair, her legs crossed at the knee, her right foot hanging in mid air. Up and down, up and down. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her heart. Sitting on the sidelines was not something she did well, but this time she had no choice. She stared at the television, not watching, not listening, and every few minutes would glance at the clock, dismayed at the sight of so few moments having clicked by since her last glance. She dragged her eyes back toward the television, forcing herself to pay attention. Watching as a game show contestant dressed as an ear of corn, choose door number two and won a goat, the groans of the studio audience were drowned out by crunch of driveway gravel under the weight of tires. Running to the window that looked out on the front yard, she pulled back the curtain, peeking outside. Letting out a short shriek of joy, she hopped in place, clapping her hands, and ran to the door, flinging it open, throwing herself into the arms of her boyfriend. He had to drop the satchel he was carrying to catch her, and steady them both before they fell off the porch. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him in to her, his hands found their usual place on her back. "Did you get it? How'd it go?" The questions flew out of her mouth in rapid succession. In answer, he walked her backwards, back into the trailer, and shut the door behind him. He moved his hands from her back so they rested on her hips, and he gently pushed her to arms length away from him, staring at her, suddenly serious. Her smile faded and her face fell. He grinned at her expression and quickly bent down grabbing the satchel and bringing it up, above his head. Unlatching the clasp, he turned the satchel upside down, allowing hundreds of bills to fly through the air. She screeched with delight, grabbing at a few bills as they floated past her face. She danced, turning and jumping across the carpet of money, clutching the bills she had grabbed to her chest. He watched her celebration from the doorway, smiling at her happiness. She stopped turning, giggling as she watched the last few bills land on the floor at his feet. Her eyes swept over the litter of money, widening in surprise of how much of the floor it covered. One. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. She said it in her head, in capital letter, then grinned up at him. "It worked!" She exclaimed, throwing herself back across the room and back into his arms. "It worked, it worked:" she continued to repeat those same words over and over again, as he kissed her neck, her collarbone. Her exclamation had reduced itself to a mummer as he laid her down, and made love to her on top of the money scattered on the floor.   
  
Later, he was still stretched out, lying naked on the money. She buttoned her jeans and slipped back into her shirt. "Com'on, we've got to get going." She said as she stood and zipped her jeans.   
  
"Wher'we going?" He asked, and rolled lazily onto his stomach.   
  
"Away. We have to go away now." She tucked in her shirt and slipped her feet into sandals. She kneeled by his head, gathering the money. "Come on," she commanded, slapping his bare back with her hands.   
  
"Ouch." He playfully complained, reaching for her.   
  
"NO. Get up and get dressed. We have to go now."  
  
"Jeeze. Ok." He stood and grabbed his own pair of jeans and headed to the bathroom. He didn't close the door, and she cringed as she heard him. She quickly gathered the rest of the money, stuffing it back into the satchel and leaving it by the front door. She looked behind her, toward the bathroom, cringing again at his sounds. She knew she was ready. She'd been preparing for this part for as long as she'd been planning the rest. Grabbing the bat, she stood to one side of the alcove that led to the bathroom. Holding the bat up and off her shoulder, she knew she'd only get one shot, so she had to make it count. This was her World Series. She heard the flush and then the rustle of denim as he pulled his jeans on. "Honeybaby" he called from the hallway, she heard his steps, bracing herself, taking one last deep breath. He appeared, suddenly, from the alcove, she swung with all the strength she could muster, making contact with his forehead. Startled, he stared at her in amazement and confusion then fell straight back, landing on the tile of the kitchen, blood pouring from the open cavity in his head.  
  
She shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths, willing her heart to calm down. An unexpected thought occurred to her, and her eyes flew open staring at him. What if he was still alive? Tip toeing around his torso, she bent gingerly feeling his neck for a pulse. She breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't find one. She stepped back, bracing herself against the kitchen sink as she thought about the next step in her plans.  
  
~*~*~  
  
She waited until after dark, for two reasons. The first, more of them would be out, the second, she stood less of a chance being seen than if she did it during the day. She waited two hours after the sun went down, spending the time sorting, counting and stacking the money. One hundred thousand, just like the note had said. She hadn't been sure it was possible for her father to have raised that amount in such a short time, but he had. When she felt it was dark enough, she grabbed her purse and walked out to the car. Starting the engine, she backed the small run down car out of the driveway and headed for downtown.  
  
After forty-five minutes of cruising up and down, she finally spotted the right one. Right height and weight. Right color hair too, but she supposed that wouldn't really matter much in the end. Pulling up to the curb near the girl she picked, she waved at her, beckoning. Sauntering over, the girl bent at the waist, sticking her head in through the open window.   
  
"Sorry, lady. I don't go that way." The girl turned and started to walk away until she called out.  
  
"No. You've got the wrong idea." Hearing this, the girl returned, again sticking her head through the open passenger side window. "It's for my boyfriend." She started to explain. The girl started to show interest. "I want to know if he'll cheat on me. I thought maybe you could. . . I don't know . . .like, come on to him, maybe . ." She let her sentence trail off as she watched the skeptical look return to the girls face. "I thought maybe, since . . well, since we look a little alike, I thought you would be perfect for the test. I've . . ." she dug into her purse, pulling out a wad of crumpled bills she'd shoved in there for just this purpose. "I have some money. . ." she held it out to the girl.   
  
The girl looked at the money, smiling, and opened the door. She said; "Oh, all right, what the hell." And climbed inside the car.  
  
  
  
Three days later  
  
The coroner pulled the sheet a little further up, covering the body's face and exposed patches of scalp and skull as the detective and parents walked in.  
  
"As I said, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, we don't know for sure this is Leslie, there aren't any finger prints left." The detective spoke softly, almost whispered, a voice he reserved only for his wife, and for the dead. "We did find this." He held out his hand to the coroner. Turning toward the silver tray that held all the instruments, the coroner picked up a long gold chain with a small, round, shiny object hanging from it, and handed it to the detective. The parents st closer; inspecting the delicate thing in the large hands of the man who told them he'd found their daughter. Mrs. Barnes began to wail, sinking to her knees. Mr. Barnes watched his wife for a moment, in shock.   
  
"Yes." He nodded slowly. "That was her necklace. That ring. . ." He reached for the small ring that hung from the chain, pushing it with his finger. "I bought this ring for her when she was just a baby." His eyes were on the ring, but his focus was somewhere else, somewhere in the past. "My wife. My wife, she said a diamond ring was too extravagant for an infant." He took a deep breath, his chest puffing up with the memory of pride. "But, nothing was to good for my daughter. . . .my daughter . . . ." He too, began to sob, reaching down, he pulled his wife to her feet, and they held on, supporting each other.   
  
  
  
The detective returned after he'd guided the Barnes' into the hall and arranged a ride home for them. "I hate that part." He said to the coroner as he approached the table.   
  
"Yeah. Me too." The coroner replied, bent over the torso of the body. After the parents had left the room, he had paused a moment, saying a little prayer for them, and then pulled the sheet back down, exposing the burnt corpse that had once been a baby girl with a diamond ring. He straightened, looking the detective in the eye. "She was kidnapped?"  
  
"Yeah. Two weeks ago. Disappeared on her way home from school. They received the ransom note, along with a Polaroid of her, tied up and gagged. They paid the ransom three days ago. Hadn't heard anything until I knocked on their door."  
  
"They didn't call in when they got the ransom note?"  
  
"No." The detective shook his head sadly. "The note said she'd die if they did, and they believed it." He looked down at the corpse on the table in front of him. "What a waste."  
  
The coroner watched him silently for a moment, then asked: "That the guy?" and jerked his thumb toward another table.  
  
"Yeah. Has to be." The detective looked across the room to the other burnt body. "The car was found in a ditch. Near as we can tell, he lost control, ran off the road, cracked his head open on the steering wheel. She . ." he looked back at the girl's corpse. "She must have hit her head too. Isn't that what that is?" He asked, pointing to what looked like a fracture in the skull. The coroner nodded. "Well," the detective continued with the story, "the gas tank exploded, and that's all she wrote. Case closed." With one final glance down at the girl, he shook his head again, and left the room. 


	2. Part Two

New York City - Present Day  
  
"Hurry up." She stood over him, near his feet, staying away from the blood. "Damn it!" she growled, glancing at her watch. She looked down at his chest, trying to determine if he was still breathing. Her eyes traveled from his chest, down and along the handle of the knife, still imbedded in his stomach. She watched, fascinated, as one small drop of blood hung shakily off the handle, then fell into the pool that had formed on the floor next to him. He whimpered, and her eyes flew to his face, anger and loathing filled her as she realized he was still alive. "You're one tough son of a bitch, aren't you?" She took a step forward, then stopped her self, knowing she'd have to do it from the other side, from his back, so she wouldn't get any of his blood on her Pradas. She'd hate to have to throw them away. She took a step back, then over his legs. Crouching down next to the small of his back, she reached up with a gloved hand and pushed on the knife, driving it a little farther. He made a tiny gasping noise, exhaled roughly, and died.   
  
She stood from her crouched position, smoothing out her skirt, double-checking her shoes for blood. Walking over to his file cabinet, she pulled the drawers open, grabbing handfuls of files and flinging them over her shoulder. Pieces of paper scattered and floated down to the floor. At his desk, she arbitrarily knocked items over. Picking up the desk lamp she hurled it across the room, smashing it into the glass of a framed map from the 1800's. She'd given him that map on their first anniversary.   
  
Looking around at the scene she'd created, she nodded her head once to herself. This should do it. She stepped back over him, and headed toward the door. Stopping at the mirror, she slicked on some lipstick, ran her tongue over her teeth and smoothed her hair. Satisfied, she pulled off the gloves, dropping them into her purse, and snapped it shut. She shut the door behind her, never having looked back at him.   
  
  
  
It was almost dawn when the cleaning crew found him. The first woman to see him, dropped her feather duster as she screamed, bringing the others running. She crossed herself, mumbling words of prayer as one of her co-workers ran to another office to call 911.  
  
  
  
  
Detectives Goren and Eames made their way through the throng of police officers, technicians and citizens trying to ease their morbid curiosity. Eames stopped in the hall, talking to the officers, hearing what they'd already learned. Goren left her side, continuing on into the office. As he always did, Bobby looked around the room before examining the body. He saw the broken frame first, hanging cockeyed on the wall. Then the shards of glass and the lamp, lying on the floor. He took in the file cabinet; it's drawer's open, the ransacked desk, and the pieces of paper that had rained down on the floor. He took in the crime scene, and something was off. He didn't quite know what it was, but it felt staged to him, as if the killer had created the scene just for the purpose of creating a scene.   
  
CSU was done with the body, and the coroner's office techs stood to the side, the black plastic body bag draped over one of their arms, waiting for Bobby's signal. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Goren stepped over the man's legs, crouching down behind his back, near his waist. Alex came into the office in time to see Bobby lifting up the dead mans right arm, leaning in, inches away, inspecting the lifeless hand, turning it over to check the palm. Setting the arm gently back down, letting it rest on its owner's thigh, Bobby glanced up at Alex. "No defensive wounds. He didn't see it coming." Alex approached him, and mindful of the blood, stood at the dead man's feet. She looked around the room.  
  
"Robbery?"  
  
"Maybe, but what's worth stealing in a lawyers office?" Bobby asked, raising from his crouched position, but not moving away from the body. "That map." He pointed to the map that hung half out of its broken frame. "That map is worth a few thousand, if this were robbery, they'd have taken it."  
  
Alex glanced at the small notebook in her hands. "Victim is Martin Wharton. There was a security guard on duty all night, but no cameras. The guard didn't see anything, but the elevator does go straight to the underground parking garage. The perp probably used it coming and going."  
  
Bobby opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a woman's voice coming from the hallway.  
  
"Marty? Marty?" The name in her voice echoed down the suddenly quiet hall.  
  
Each detective looked toward the door, as the woman's voice became closer and more worried with each call.   
  
"Marty? Marty?" Bobby and Alex could tell she had been stopped by an officer when they heard her say: "That's my husbands office, where's my husband? Marty?"  
  
Glancing at the coroners techs, and motioning for them to begin removing the body, Bobby stepped back over the stretched out legs, and followed Alex into the hall.  
  
Looking toward the commotion, Bobby and Alex watched as a uniformed officer held the woman back, his hands on her shoulders. She was still shouting for her husband, "Would you let me go. Why can't I see my husband?" She struggled against the cop; stretching herself to look over his shoulder, "Marty . . ." she saw Goren and Alex watching from the office doorway "Are you in charge?" She shouted, meeting Bobby's eyes. Bobby glanced down at Alex, and they both started down the hallway toward the woman and the cop. The woman relaxed under the officers' hold, questioning Bobby as he was still walking up to her. "What's happened? Where's my husband? Marty Wharton, where is he?" The uniformed officer let go of her shoulders as Bobby and Alex walked up, and stepped aside for the detectives.  
  
"Mrs. Wharton?" Bobby asked.  
  
"Karen. Karen Wharton. What's happened to my husband?"   
  
Alex placed a steadying hand on Karen's arm. "Mrs. Wharton, why don't we step over here?" Alex gestured to an area around a corner.   
  
"No. Please, tell me . . ." Karen's voice broke away; her eyes stared down the hall. Bobby and Alex watched as a horrified, unbelieving look settled into her face. Turning his head back toward the office he had just left, Bobby saw the coroners' techs pushing the stretcher out of the office, the black plastic body bag laid out on it. He turned back toward Karen, in time to see her jerk her arm out of Alex's hand, and push past them, down the hall, toward the body on the stretcher. "No-No-No-" she began to wail. Bobby caught up with her in two steps, reaching out and grabbing her arm, pulling her back Karen yanked out of his grasp, but he was able to stretch out his arm, across her upper chest, holding her back. She fought him, struggling against his grip, trying to get to her husbands body. The technicians stopped in their tracks, watching, not knowing what to do. Karen stopped struggling, collapsing first against Bobby, and then sinking down onto the floor. 


	3. Part Three

Many thanks to Soph and daf9 for your encouraging comments. I only hope the rest of the story can live up to your expectations.  
  
  
  
Serial Widow - Part Three  
  
The paramedics were still on sight, just getting ready to drive away, when a uniformed officer ran down and brought them back upstairs. Bobby and Alex had pulled Karen up off the floor and maneuvered her to a bench down the hall, and around the corner. Where she couldn't see her husband or his office. The detectives moved out of the way, giving the paramedics room to work. Karen sat silently; her wailing giving over to the occasional sob and deep, congested breaths. Twenty minutes later one of the paramedics looked up from his kneeling position to Bobby and Alex. "She's calmer now, but we should still take her in."   
  
"No." Karen mumbled.  
  
"Miss, you need to be seen by a doctor."  
  
"No." Karen refused again, a little louder.   
  
The paramedic shrugged, and stood up, facing the detectives. "We can't force her if she doesn't want to go." He glanced back down to the huddled woman on the bench. "We've done all we can for her." He turned back toward the bench, his partner stood then, bending back down so his face was near Karen's, whispering to her. She nodded in understanding. Packing up their equipment, the paramedics started down the hall, with one glance back toward Karen, they turned the corner and were gone.  
  
Karen watched them, and when they were out of sight, she turned her attention to the detectives. "What happened to my husband?"  
  
Alex sat down next to Karen on the bench, and in a quite voice she used for victims families, she said: "He was stabbed. Sometime during the night."  
  
Karen brought her hand up to her mouth, stifling a sob. She swallowed hard before she was able to speak. "But, by who? Who would want to do something like that?"  
  
"That's what we're hoping you could tell us." Bobby said.   
  
Karen looked at him, her brow furrowed, her eyes confused. "What do you mean? I don't understand."  
  
"Did he mention any unsatisfied clients? Any threatening letters or phone calls? Anything unusual in the past few weeks?" Alex asked.  
  
"No." Karen thought harder, her eyes staring in to space. "No. Nothing like that. Everything's been . . . fine." She cast a quick glance to Alex, then to the floor.  
  
Bobby picked up on her eye movement, and her pause. "Uh...it hasn't been 'fine'. Has it?"   
  
Karen lifted her head a little, glancing at Bobby out of the corner of her eye. "No." She said sadly, and looked at the floor again before she continued. "He's been a little . . ." she paused, searching for the right word "a little off the past few months. He's been taking money out of our account, first just a little every couple of days, but then the amounts got larger and larger. The past few weeks, it's been hard to make ends meet, he's been taking so much out."  
  
Alex cocked her head lower, "Was he gambling?"  
  
Karen shook her head side to side. "No I don't think so. I think maybe he was doing drugs."  
  
"Why do you think that?"  
  
"His behavior, mostly. He'd come home irritated, angry at the world, go into the bathroom for a few minutes, and come back out happy. Too happy."  
  
"Did you ever find any paraphernalia?"  
  
Karen shook her head in answer.  
  
Alex glanced at Bobby; he didn't have anything he wanted to ask. "Ok, Mrs. Wharton. Thank you. We'll get an officer to drive you home."  
  
Karen nodded and wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth, crying again.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Bobby stepped back into the office as Alex pulled a uniform to the side, instructing him to drive Karen home. He stood in the doorway, again taking it all in, but this time with the possible perspective that a drug dealer did this. But if a dealer did do this, why the ransacked files? Why the disarray of the desk top, the thrown lamp, the broken frame? Bobby shook his head, and walked deeper into the office. Alex appeared in the doorway. "Dealers don't usually do this." She said, look around at the chaos.   
  
"I know." Bobby answered, kneeling down over the pool of drying blood. "And he didn't have any defensive wounds on his hands." He stood up, turning to face Alex. "Any dealer would have the knife out, threatening. They want the money, not their customer dead." He turned back to the body's outline, pointing to it. "Martin didn't see it coming, didn't know his killer had a knife, or their intentions." He looked back at Alex.  
  
"It was someone he knew, and trusted." She said. Bobby nodded  
  
~*~*~  
  
Before they headed back to their office, the detectives talked to the other occupants of the offices on Martin's floor. None of them had known Martin well enough to do anything but nod hello in the hall. Disappointed, but not really surprised, they headed back to One Police Plaza.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Bobby sat at his desk, staring at the crime scene photos that had been delivered a few minutes ago, trying to find what it was that was bothering him about the scene. Alex finished typing her final comments on their initial report, pulled it out of the typewriter and handed it across the desk to Bobby. He reached for it, with out looking up from the photos, set it down, glancing and signing at the bottom. He handed it back with out looking up. Alex sighed, taking it from him. He was so deeply engrossed in the photos, his arm remained in the air for a moment or two before he pulled it back, realizing she'd taken the report. Bobby exhaled loudly, closing the folder and handed it to Alex. Stretching his arms out on his desktop, he interlaced his fingers, his mind reeling with possible scenarios. Suddenly, he looked up at Alex, startling her with his sudden animation. "Let's go to the house, see if we can find any proof he was doing drugs."   
  
~*~*~  
  
  
Bobby climbed out of the passenger side of the SUV and stopped on the sidewalk, looking up at the town home. Alex stepped up off the curb, joining him. They both silently watched the house for a moment. There was no air of mourning, no sense of sadness about the house. They could both see activity, movement though the sheer curtains of the living room. Bobby looked at Alex, she returned his glance with her eyebrow cocked, a "that's interesting" gesture. Simultaneously, they both started up the path to the front door. Bobby held the screen door open as Alex knocked. A well dressed, distinguished looking man in his early 40's answered.  
  
"Yes?"   
  
Bobby and Alex glanced at each other. "I'm Detective Eames," Alex showed him her badge. "This is my partner, Detective Goren. We need to speak to Mrs. Wharton."  
  
"Of course, please come in." He stepped aside, holding out his left hand into the living room. "I'm Joel Decker, my wife Sylvia and I are old friends of Karen's late husband. Karen called us this morning, and told us what happened." He shook his head. "What a waste." He was silent for a moment, and then continued. "Anyway, Sylvia and I insisted she come spend a few days with us. We came right over, Sylvia is upstairs with Karen now, helping her pack."  
  
As if she heard her name, Karen appeared on the stairs. She stopped halfway down, seeing her visitors. "Detectives." They turned, watching as she descended the rest of the stairs. "What can I do for you?"   
  
"We'd like your permission to search the house for any drug paraphernalia." Karen looked at him quizzically. "If we find something, it's possible we could lift prints, or possibly even DNA." Bobby answered her expression. He took a step closer to her before he went on. "It could help us find the person who killed your husband." He cocked his head, meeting her eyes, watching her expression. What he saw was her smile slightly.  
  
"Of course." She held her hands out in empty offering. Glancing at Alex: "Whatever you'd like." Refocusing back to Bobby, meeting his intent gaze: "I have nothing to hide."  
  
They met Sylvia Decker on the stairs, she was coming down carrying a suite case as Bobby and Alex made their way up. Sylvia stopped in mid step, watching them with confusion. Only when they passed her and disappeared into the master bedroom, did she continue her descent, joining her husband and Karen in the living room.   
  
It was an ordinary bedroom. Alex headed to the nightstands while Bobby began to search the adjoining bath. Each searched for silently. After not finding anything in the nightstands, Alex moved on to the dressers. Bobby looked in the medicine cabinet, the drawers, under the sink, even lifting the toilet tank cover. Both came up with nothing. No shred of evidence Martin Wharton was taking any kind of drugs, expect the occasional aspirin.   
  
  
Heading down the staircase, both noticed that the house felt to quiet, empty. Reaching the bottom step, Bobby stopped, near the front door, glancing around the living room. Joel Decker laid the magazine he was reading down on the couch next to him and stood. "Uh . . . where are the ladies?" Bobby asked.  
  
"My wife took Karen to our house. She needed to rest. I stayed behind to lock up when you were done." Joel answered.  
  
"Alright. We'll talk to you then." Alex said as she took out her notebook and pen. "How long did you know Mr. Wharton?"  
  
"Only about a year and a half, we met shortly after he and Karen were married."  
  
From the bookcase he had wandered to Bobby stopped his perusing, turning to Joel. "You said that you were an old friend of Wharton's."  
  
"No. Sorry, I didn't make myself clear. Sylvia and I were old friends of Karen's previous late husband, Stephen."  
  
"She was married before?" Bobby asked.  
  
"Yes. They were still newlyweds when he was killed."  
  
"Stephen . . .?" Alex paused, waiting for Joel to fill in the blank.  
  
"Morris. Stephen Morris. He was an old college friend of mine."  
  
"How did he die?" Asked Bobby, taking a few steps away from the bookcase.  
  
"Shot. He was shot straight in the heart, during a mugging."  
  
"Was Karen there?"  
  
"Yes. As a matter of fact, she was. She said that she and Stephen had just seen a movie. The theatre wasn't far from their apartment, and it was a nice evening, they decided to walk home. About half way there, Karen said a man with a gun walked out from an alley, blocking their path, pointing the gun at her. He forced them into the alley, where he took Stephen's wallet and watch, Karen's jewelry. She said he shot Stephen then took off, running."  
  
Bobby and Alex glanced at each other. "Did they ever catch the guy?" Alex asked, returning her attention to Joel.  
  
"No. Well, yes and no. Karen did one of those picture things, a . . .what do you people call it? A composite? A drawing of the muggers face." Bobby and Alex both nodded in understanding. "Well, the police, detectives, I suppose, found someone who matched her description, but Karen was unable to pick him up out of a line up, so they had to let him go."   
  
"What about the gun . . .did they find that?" Alex asked.  
  
"Yes. They did. A few days later, it was found in a trash can about a half a block away from the alley, as was Stephen's wallet, the cash gone."   
  
"Ah . ." Bobby began, "were Karen's hands ever tested for gun powder?"   
  
Joel's head jerked in surprise. "No, I don't think so. What a ridiculous question."   
  
Bobby smiled at the answer. "I get that a lot." His face changed as if he just remembered something, and he patted his jacket, then his pants pockets, looking for something. "I ah. . . I left my . . .uh, I need to go back upstairs." He pointed to the staircase as he headed toward it, not giving Joel the chance to protest. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went into the bedroom doorway, stopped, looking around. When he didn't see right away what he was looking for, he walked into the bathroom, again stopping in the doorway, looking. Seeing what he wanted, he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket with the flourish of a magician, wrapping the white cotton around the object and shoved the combination in his pocket.   
  
Back downstairs, Alex was asking the usual questions, finding out as much as she could about the Wharton's marriage, Martins habits. She turned when she heard Bobby on the landing "I think we're done here." She said to him. Bobby nodded in agreement, opening the door.   
  
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Decker. Please tell Mrs. Wharton we'll be in touch." The detectives stepped outside, Joel right behind them, closing and locking the front door. "Can we give you a lift?" Bobby asked, pointing toward the SUV.  
  
"No. No, but thank you, I've called a cab." Joel answered, pushing his hands into his pants pockets.   
  
"Ok then." Bobby smiled and headed to the curb.  
  
  
Inside the SUV, Alex started the engine and pulled her seat belt across her. "What'd you get?" She asked glancing over at Bobby in the passenger seat.  
  
"Lipstick." He said, fastening his own seat belt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sorry ya'll, that's it for about a week. I'm off to spend Thanksgiving in a computer-less home. 


	4. Part Four

Two reports came back from the lab at the same time. Wharton's autopsy, and the prints from the lipstick. Bobby took the autopsy; Alex took the lipstick, each reading silently for a few moments.   
  
"Here's a surprise." Bobby said sarcastically, "no presence of drugs of any kind in his system."  
  
Alex laid down the folder and looked across her desk to Bobby. "I'll go you one better. The prints on the lipstick belong to an 18 year old kidnap victim, who was killed along with her kidnapper, fifteen years ago, in Kansas."  
  
~*~*~  
  
"She had priors?" Captain Deakins asked as Alex finished telling him what they'd learned.  
  
"Third grade class trip to the local police station, she was chosen to be fingerprinted as demonstration."   
  
"Why didn't they fingerprint the body found in the car?"  
  
"There wasn't any skin on her hands. Her parents i.d'd her from a necklace the body was wearing, a chain with an infant sized diamond ring as a pendant."  
  
"These people bought their infant a diamond ring? No wonder she was kidnapped."  
  
"If she was kidnapped." Bobby said from the corner of the room. Alex and Deakins both turned their attention to him. He raised his left arm at the elbow, his hand lying flat out, palm up. His body language way of saying 'this is how I see it'. "Let's say she was kidnapped. Her parent's pay the ransom, the kidnappers have two choices, kill her or let her go. She obviously wasn't killed, and if they let her go. . . why didn't she go home?"  
  
"We need to talk to the parents." Deakins said.  
  
"They're dead. The mother died eighteen months after the kidnapping, the father died last year."   
  
Deakins shook his head as Bobby stood up, reaching for the file in Alex's hands. "Do we have a picture of her, or her parents?"  
  
"Just what the newspapers printed fifteen years ago. Kansas City PD faxed them to us. They're not very good."  
  
Bobby flipped through the papers in the file until he found the faxed photos. Deakins came from around his desk, also looking at the photo's from Bobby's side. Bobby tapped a finger on the photo of the girl. "It could be her, fifteen years ago."  
  
"It could also be Alex when she was 18." Deakins said, returning to the seat behind his desk. Alex turned her head away from his line of sight and rolled her eyes. "Run a check on this Karen . . . whatever, check both last names. Let me know what you come up with."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Alex started with the Morris marriage license. That listed Karen's previous last name as Clark. With that she ran the usual check on Karen Clark. Alex scrolled down, reading facts and figures about Karen Clark, and then stopped suddenly. She read, and then reread the last report on the screen. Glancing over at Bobby, then back to the screen, as if she couldn't believe her eyes. Bobby saw the look, and walked over to her side of the desk, standing behind her. He too, read the last report on the screen, then bent down closer to the pc, and reread it. Alex turned her head, watching Bobby's reaction. "Is there a photo of Karen Clark?"  
  
"Just this one." Alex scrolled back up to the copy of the California drivers' license. "It could be the woman we know as Karen Morris-Wharton. According to the date of the reissue," Alex pointed to the screen, "this replacement license was applied for three days before that report was written."  
  
Bobby sat down on the edge of Alex's desk. His hand covered his mouth as he stared at the floor. "So, there's a body that was i.d.'d by DNA, as well as by the family, as Karen Clark, found at the bottom of Niagara Falls, dead at least a week." Alex nodded in agreement.  
  
"So while the real Karen Clark was floating her way up to the surface, the woman we know as Karen was reapplying for a drivers license."  
  
Bobby stood suddenly, and bent down again in front of the pc. He read further into the report. "The case is still open. Her family reported Karen had recently become involved in numerology, had become friends with a woman Karen only referred to as Sammie."  
  
"Numerology?"   
  
Bobby looked at Alex, considering. "It'd be a good way to get all the information you'd need to steal an identity. Date and place of birth." He paused, "Social security, drivers license number. It's perfect."  
  
~*~*~  
  
"And you think this unidentified numerologist killed Karen Clark?" Captain Deakins asked.  
  
"Yes." Bobby answered.   
  
"And that the killer is the same woman you met as Karen Wharton?" Bobby and Alex both nodded "Check with the FBI, see if a numerologist raises any flags."  
  
~*~*~  
  
They found two others. Samantha James in Houston, 1996 and Margaret Vaughn in L.A., 1992. Both women were similar in personality and habits. Both were shy, almost recluse in their lifestyle. No real friends, no boyfriend. Samantha James' family lived in a different state, Margaret Vaughn's parents had died when she was seventeen, and she had no other family.   
  
Samantha's mother filed a missing persons report three weeks after she'd last spoken to Samantha. When police asked if Samantha had seemed depressed, or despondent, her mother replied: "No. As a matter of fact, she had just made a new friend. Sammie said the friend was into astrology, life energy, planet charting. . . numerology. She was excited; she said this woman was going to read everything she could for Sammie. My baby was looking forward to a new life."   
  
Samantha had been found ten days before her mother reported her missing. Samantha had never been fingerprinted, there was no way to i.d.the dead body. She'd been buried by the state; with no head marker the same week her mother reported her missing. It took another three weeks after that for someone to put two and two together and test the DNA the coroner had taken from Jane Doe against Samantha's parents, for a positive id.  
  
Margaret Vaughn was reported missing by her boss, on the second day she failed to show up at work. Police searched her apartment, they reported no sign of struggle, and it appeared that all Margaret's clothes were still there. The investigating officers did found numerology books on the coffee table. One left open, as if Margaret had been in the middle of reading it. A bookstore receipt had been tucked into one of the other books. It confirmed Margaret purchased the books two weeks before her disappearance.   
  
Margaret was found by a jogger, lying on a stretch of beach. Salt water in her lungs confirmed drowning. It was assumed to be suicide, but after Margaret car was found two miles north of where she washed up, with her purse in the front seat, a female detective wondered why she'd brought her purse with her. A woman leaving her apartment with the intentions of driving to the ocean and walking in, would probably leave her purse at home. And the coroner found bruising on the top of Margaret head. Five small oval bruises, unevenly spaced in a half moon pattern. "What the hell could cause that?" One of the detectives asked.  
  
"This." Replied the female detective and placed her hand just a fraction of an in above the scalp, her fingers fell in line with the bruises. "She didn't kill herself. Someone held her under." 


	5. Part Five Finale

The office was quiet; Deakins had left for home over an hour ago. Bobby read the files and reports on Margaret Vaughn's death as Alex read about Samantha James. Alex finished reading first and stood, reaching her fingertips to the ceiling, stretching cramped muscles, unkinking her spine. She was feeling better as she walked to the coffee pot, and poured both herself and Bobby a cup.  
  
When she arrived back at their desks, Bobby was just closing the Vaughn file. Alex handed him the coffee he said a grateful "Thanks." Each handed the other the reports they had just finished, opening the new file and began reading again.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Bobby sat at his makeshift desk in his dining room, the apartment around him dark, expect for the light of the computer screen, he logged on to the internet, and surfed into the IRS site through a back door created by his tree hugging friends. Highly illegal, he knew, but justified it to himself, it was for a good cause, and he couldn't wait for the red tape.  
  
He ran a search on Samantha James, who died in Houston in 1996. According to the IRS files, Samantha filed her 1996 taxes three months after her death. Not only that, she filed her 1997 and '98 taxes as well, but under the name Samantha Connelly, a joint filing. Karen Clark wasn't the only one to have been bride after she was a corpse. Samantha James was married for three years after she died. The husbands name on the taxes was Matthew Connelly, Bobby noted that the 1998 taxes were the last joint filing, and in fact were the last filing that both Matthew Connelly and Samantha James-Connelly had ever done.   
  
With dread in the pit of his stomach, he searched for Margaret Vaughn. As with Samantha, Margaret had filed her taxes after her death. And, in 1993, Margaret lived in Houston, the same city Samantha James lived and died. Again, same as Samantha and Karen, Margaret had married a year after she drown. Andrew and Margaret Alverton filed together '94 -'96. 1996 being the last time the IRS had heard from either one of them.   
  
That old saying floated into Bobby's mind. I'm married, not buried. Apparently Karen, Samantha and Margaret   
had been both.   
  
Bobby closed his eyes tight against the brightness of the computer screen. All the information, all the names, dates, marriages, deaths. . . everything he had learned that day swarmed in circles in his head. Mentally silencing his information overload alarm, Bobby pulled up the Houston Chronicle website, clicked on obituaries, and found the reason Andrew Alverton never filed his taxes again. He died in 1996. The online obituary was linked to an article reporting Andrew's death. He had come home early from a trip, arriving at 3am. His wife, Margaret, thinking him an intruder, shot and killed him. The bullet had entered the center of his heart. The incident had been ruled accidental, and no charges were brought against Margaret.  
  
On the LA Times site, Bobby found an obit for Matthew Connelly, and another link pulled up an eerily similar article. Matthew had been murdered as he slept. Shot twice in the head. Police suspected his wife, Samantha, but she had been in Seattle at the time, for the funeral of an old friend. The airline and hotel confirmed Samantha was in the state of Washington the night her husband was killed in California.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Bobby was at his desk early the next morning. His first two calls had been to the Houston and Los Angles Police Departments, requesting reports and files on the husbands deaths. The LAPD told him the Connelly murder was still an open case, all possible suspects had an alibi. Houston put him off, saying the death had been ruled accidental, and further investigation wasn't needed. Bobby eventually won them over, and they agreed to fax what they had. While waiting for the faxes, Bobby called the FAA, and got a list of flights from Seattle to Los Angles for the night Connelly was murdered. With the third airline he called, he got what he wanted. Samantha Connelly may have been in Seattle when her husband was killed, but Margaret Alverton had landed in LA from Seattle two hours before the time established time of death. She'd also flown back to Seattle the next morning.  
  
Alex arrived a half hour later, carrying the fax from LA she'd been handed in the hall. Bobby was just finishing reading the case file Houston had faxed in. He handed the Houston fax to Alex, taking the LA fax from her at the same time. As she pulled off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair, she listened to Bobby as he explained what he'd learned, and what he suspected. Alex knew she was a smart woman, and a good cop, but she had difficulty following what Bobby was telling her. To many names, to many dates. To many lives. Bobby finally took her into the small meeting room near the desks, and used the white board to create a timeline, retelling each story as he wrote it down.  
  
  
Margaret Vaughn dies February 1992  
  
  
  
  
Records show Margaret Vaughn working in Houston April 1992  
Margaret marries Andrew Alverton Jan 1993  
  
  
  
  
Lives as Margaret Alverton 1993-1996  
A. Alverton dies June 1996  
  
  
  
  
  
Samantha James June 1996  
  
  
  
  
Samantha James begins working in Atlanta July 1996  
Samantha marries Matthew Connelly Dec 1996  
  
  
  
  
Lives as Samantha Connelly 1996-1998  
M. Connelly dies March 1998  
  
  
  
  
  
Karen Clark dies March 1998  
  
  
  
  
Karen Clark arrives in NYC March 1998  
Karen Clark marries Stephen Morris April 1998  
  
  
Married April 98-Oct 98  
  
Lives as Karen Morris 1998-2000  
  
  
  
S. Morris dies Oct 1998  
  
  
  
  
  
Marries Martin Wharton Jan 2000  
  
  
  
  
Lives as Karen Wharton 2000-present  
M. Wharton dies Oct 2002  
  
  
  
  
"My God." Alex muttered, understanding the magnitude of what Bobby had just lain out. "Hang on." She said and left the room quickly. Grabbing a file off her desk, she jogged walked back, closing the door behind her. Laying the file on the table, she opened it, searching for what she remembered, Bobby hovering over her shoulder. Alex found what she was looking for and pointed to it as she spoke. "Leslie Barnes, the 18 year old kidnap victim-"  
  
"Whose prints were on Karen Clark-Morris-Wharton's lipstick." Bobby interjected.  
  
"Yeah, she 'died' in 1987. If the first record we can find of . . .whoever this woman is, is in 1992, what was she doing for 5 years?"  
  
Bobby took a deep breath, contemplating the possibilities.  
  
~*~*~  
  
ADA Ron Carver had been called and asked to come in to listen to the theory. They gathered in Capitan Deakins office, Carver taking one of the two chairs in front of the captain's desk.  
  
"Morris married her after knowing her for only a month?" Deakins asked  
  
"We called Joel Decker, Morris's old friend," Alex explained. "He told us Morris met Karen in a chat room in November of '97. They had an online affair until she shows up here in March of '98."   
  
"Right after the real Karen Clark died." Carver interjected.  
  
"If she used Karen Clarks name four months before she killed her . . ." Deakins studied the timeline Bobby had created.  
  
"She already had her picked out, and was already planning to kill her husband." Alex answered. Bobby had become silent after he explained everything to Deakins and Carver, sitting on the corner of a small table in the corner of the office.   
  
"Insurance?" Deakins asked.  
  
"None that we could find."  
  
"Not on any of them?" Carver looked incredulous.  
  
"Morris did have a policy, but his mother was beneficiary."  
  
"Family money? Jewels? If, this is the same woman, why the hell did she kill all her husbands?" Carver stressed the 'if' as he said it.  
  
Alex shook her head. They didn't know. No insurance, no family money, all of the marriages had racked up debt, not riches. There was no reason Alex could think of for these men to have been killed. She also wasn't entirely convinced this was done by the same woman, the woman they'd met as Karen Wharton.  
  
"Do you have any actual evidence this is the same woman?" Carver asked, standing at looking over to Bobby.  
  
Slowly, Bobby shook his head. "I want to bring her in anyway."  
  
"On what grounds?"   
  
Suddenly animated again, agitated, Bobby, stood, and began pacing. "The prints on the lipstick. If she confesses she's Leslie Barnes, I can make her fall on the rest of them."  
  
Carver sighed deeply, crossing one arm just above his belt and resting the other arm on it. Two of his fingers pulled gently at his ear as he thought over the legal ramifications. "Ok." he said after a few minutes. "But if she asks for a lawyer - If she even says the word lawyer - the questioning stops. She's not under arrest." He laid his hand out flat, slicing the air horizontally, emphasizing the 'not'.  
  
Bobby nodded in agreement with the terms.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Thinking she'd be less suspicious, less on guard, they didn't go pick her up. Instead Alex called, told her they'd found something in her husbands background, something they needed to speak to her about. She agreed to come down to their office.  
  
While they waited for her arrival, Bobby was busy printing and copying; phoning to request more faxes from other cities departments. When he'd gotten everything he wanted, he gathered up all he'd collected, and a roll of scotch tape and disappeared into the interrogation room. He came out twenty minutes later, quickly scanned the room for Karen, and when he didn't see her, wheeled the whiteboard from Deakins office into the interrogation room as well.   
  
Back at his desk moments later, he had just enough time to readjust his tie as Karen walked in.  
  
"Mrs. Wharton." Bobby called as he stood raising his arm in a half 'over here' wave.  
  
She smiled when she saw him, and made her way through the traffic of cops and criminals.  
  
"Detective . . .Goren, wasn't it?" She held out her hand.  
  
Bobby nodded and shook her hand, smiling at her. "We just have a few things we'd like to discuss with you about your husband. Uh.. . . " he glanced around at the activity that surrounded them and looked at Alex. "Maybe we should go in there" he pointed vaguely toward the interrogation room, "for a little privacy." He turned to Karen and smiled.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Just inside the door of the interrogation room, Bobby stepped to the side, and turned, as if out of politeness, back toward Karen. He was really watching for her reaction, nearly savoring the moment. Karen was three steps behind Bobby, Alex a step behind her.   
  
Karen stepped through the doorway, smiling slightly at Bobby, and then as everyone does when they walk into an unfamiliar room, she turned her head, surveying her surroundings. Her scrutiny didn't last long; her attention was immediately drawn to the wall straight in front of her. All the printing and copying Bobby had done, were pictures of all the people he considered to be Karen's victims. He'd taped them to the wall, in timeline order, beginning with her parents and ending with an 8x10 of a smiling Martin Wharton.  
  
Bobby watched her reaction, her eyes widening as she took in the entire wall, realizing. He was right. He knew it. Up until that instant, he wasn't positive, but in that second, he knew he was right. He continued to watch as her eyes moved down the line, pausing for a moment on each picture, she was looking with mere curiosity, nothing else. No regret. Recognition only showing for the last two photos, Morris and Wharton. The two husbands she was married to as Karen. And even then, as she stared at those last two photos, there was no sign of emotion. Not the tears of bereaved widow, not even sadness over the lives that might have been. Bobby glanced at Alex, who still stood in the open doorway, behind Karen. Alex returned his look, she was now convinced too.  
  
"Margaret?" Bobby prompted, using the name she'd spent the most time as since shedding herself of the name her parents gave her. She turned to him, in response. He had her.   
  
"Who's Margaret?" She asked, cocking her head to one side.  
  
Bobby smiled. Big, broad, genuine. She was smart, he liked smart.   
  
Instead of answering her question, he held out his arm, gesturing to the chair that faced the two way mirror. "Please, have a seat."  
  
She did, settling herself into the chair, even glancing at her reflection in the mirror, and smoothing her hair. Bobby took the seat directly in front of her, blocking her view of herself. She smiled at him; she was enjoying this too, feeling simultaneously like the cat and the mouse. "What is it that you found, and how can I help you with it?"   
She asked as Alex settled into the seat at the end of the table nearest the door.   
  
"We think you killed your husband." Bobby stated flatly, watching her eyes.  
  
"Which one?" She asked, an amused lilt in her voice.  
  
Again, he smiled at her response. "All of them, actually. As well as some other people. And you may as well have killed you parents, considering they died of broken hearts."  
  
"All of them?" Karen asked, her brow knitted in confusion. "There've only been two. What do you mean 'all'?"  
  
Bobby swung his arm at the wall of photos. "All of THEM. Com'on. You know we know. Just tell us." When she only responded with a look of utter confusion, he continued. "Your mistake . . " He moved his arm, instead of pointing at the photos, he pointed at her. "Your mistake was using that numerology crap more than once. I know it must have been very effective, but surely you must have known you'd used it to often. Is that why you didn't move on after you killed Morris? You didn't want to chance using that same con one more time?"  
  
Karen stared at him, not responding. "All of them. You killed the boyfriend you staged your kidnapping with, you killed a girl to take your place in the burned car. . .she was a hooker, wasn't she? Or a junkie? Someone no one would ever miss." Karen didn't answer his question. "You killed Margaret Vaughn, Samantha James, Karen Clark, your husbands, Andrew, Matth-"  
  
Karen cut him off in mid sentence. "My, my, how you do go on." She said in her best Scarlet O'Hara. Bobby stopped speaking, staring at her impudence. Karen smiled at the effect she'd had on him. "You know. . ." she began again, her eyes flickering down Bobby's body, "every other man I've rendered speechless . . ." she paused for effect "Eventually proposed." Smiling at her own teasing, she brought her arms up to rest on the table top, propping her head onto one of her hands.  
  
Bobby stood suddenly, the legs of his chair loudly scraping the cement floor. He walked the length of his side of the table, turning gradually behind Alex, coming up so he stood at Karen's back, looming over her. He stood silently for a moment, making her feel his presence. Then he bent down, so his mouth was at her ear. "I like breathing." He whispered to her. Karen sucked in her breath sharply, exhaling only after he straightened, removing himself from her personal space. He continued on, in his journey around the table, ending at the whiteboard he had wheeled in earlier. He flipped the board, so his timeline faced the room. "All these people." He took a step back from the board, staring at it, taking it in. "All these lives. And not just the victims. Their families, friends. The children they might have had. . ." Karen breathing stopped for a moment when he mentioned children. Bobby noticed, but didn't let her know he did, and continued ". . .all the lives that might have been touched by these people who are now dead." He turned to her as he said this. Her breathing had returned to normal, her face once again emotionless, her eyes not giving any secrets. She met his gaze, unwaveringly. For the next few moments, they had an adult version of a playground staring contest. Bobby looked away first, retaking his seat directly across the table from Karen.   
  
He leaned into the table, as if he was about to share a secret with her, and whispered: "You're a psychopath."   
  
She laughed. The short burst echoed in the otherwise silent room. Still smiling with her laughter, she mimicked Bobby's posture, leaning herself into the table, putting one shoulder a little further out. Coyly, flirting, she answered his allegation. "No I'm not."   
  
"What would you say," Bobby went on, rejecting her flirtation, "if I told you that I can prove you're Leslie Barnes?"  
  
"And how could you do that?"  
  
"Your finger prints match. You were fingerprinted during a third grade field trip. You forgot about that, didn't you?"  
  
"It's obviously a clerical error. If this Leslie Barnes was eight, that must have been a long time ago. There weren't computers then, so the fingerprints had to have been transferred at some point. Obviously, someone attached the wrong name. Paperwork gets shuffled around all the time. Computer systems go down all the time. Who knows what goes on inside those little chips when that happens."  
  
"What if . . . I can prove you weren't in Seattle when Matthew Connelly was murdered? Murdered in the bed you shared with him. That I can prove you were in Los Angles . . . that you killed him? How 'bout if I can prove you knew Andrew was coming home early, that you didn't think he was an intruder, that you SHOT HIM ON PURPOSE?" Bobby stopped his bluff, waiting for Karen to say something.  
  
She stared at the table for a moment, and slowly looked up, meeting Bobby's stare. Instead of answering his questions, she asked one of her own. "Am I under arrest?"  
  
It was Bobby's turn to pause. After a moment he said: "No."  
  
Karen pushed her chair back and stood. Pulling her purse up over her shoulder, she walked to the door and opened it. In the threshold, she paused, still facing the hallway, and turned slowly to look at Bobby one more time. He held his breath. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she was about to say something, but she suddenly changed her mind, her lips transformed into a slight, wicked smile. She turned back to the open door, and walked away. 


End file.
